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7
No Choice
Charlotte
I woke up the morning of November first, wondering if last night had been a dream. Had I flirted all night with Oliver? Had I invited him into my apartment afterward? Had I had sex with him? Twice? Had he proposed that we pretend to be engaged so that he could have a place to live and I could have a roommate to help me afford to stay in my condo?
This proposal was preposterous. Things like that just don’t happen in the real world. I suppose they happen in romance novels, or perhaps immigrants seeking to get married so they can stay in the country. But professional doctors don’t get involved in a fake engagement to improve an image or help with a financial problem. That’s just crazy, especially since we barely know each other. Who would believe it?
I get dressed and head out to the kitchen, where I see proof of having made an omelet last night, which means that everything I thought had been a dream had happened.
As I make myself a cup of coffee, I have to wonder what Oliver did back in California, that his reputation has followed him out here. And how bad is it? It has to be pretty bad, which means I’d be foolish to take him up on his offer.
At the same time, having gotten to know him, it’s hard to see him as having a really bad reputation. Yes, he is handsome and incredibly sexy. I’m sure he’s been involved with many women, but he doesn’t strike me as the type to love them and leave them, make promises he doesn’t keep, or disrespect them.
I shake my head to rid myself of all thoughts of Oliver and what happened last night. I don’t regret it, because it was enjoyable, but it won’t happen again. It’s time to move on. I carry my coffee to my secretary's desk in the corner and pull out my bills. I also open my laptop to check my bank account. My mortgage and the office rental payment on my practice office come out in automatic withdrawals. I like to check that they went through so I don’t get any penalties for being late.
Logging into my online bank account, it’s always a shock to see my income drop significantly on the first of the month. My mortgage and practice rental take a significant chunk of my money. I look at the bills on my desk and pull out my calculator,; all I see is bad news.
I sit back in my chair and realize I’m weeks away from running out of money. If I’m going to survive, I will have to tap into my savings, but there’s only so long that will last. And at this point, I don’t have any prospects for saving money or making more money short of selling my condo and moving my practice. But doing that would take a while.
At the same time, I'm not too fond of using my savings to support myself. Most of that money I inherited from my grandmother when she died. I used some of it for the down payment on this condo. It was an extravagant purchase, but my mother always wished to live in a place on the Upper East Side of New York. Her dream was to be a model, and while she was a very beautiful woman, she never made it. According to the industry, she wasn’t quite tall enough and was usually a little bit too heavy for its standards. She did everything they recommended, including going under the knife to improve her nose and chin. She constantly dieted, switching from one new fast weight-loss fad to the next. Ultimately, it killed her. I blamed the fashion industry and the emphasis on beauty for killing her. Granted, she made the choices she did, but my mom was a beautiful woman who shouldn’t have had to change anything. All that crazy yo-yo dieting put a strain on her system, and because we didn’t have great healthcare, a heart problem went undetected until, on her last diet, she died.
I was thirteen at the time. At thirteen, feeling pretty and wanting to be popular seemed especially important. For a while, I’d adapted all those ideals, doing what I could to fit in. But I couldn’t help but think about what it had done to my mom. It affected her health, as well as her morale and psyche. I knew I didn’t want to go through that.
My mother and I went to live with my grandmother when I was a baby after my father died serving in the military in the middle east. When my mother died, I stayed with my grandmother until she finished raising me. She and I continued to live together while I went to college, graduate school, medical school, and even as I started my practice. She wasn’t just my grandmother; she was my best friend.
So when my grandmother died, I was left alone. Perhaps that’s why when Stephen, the man I had been seeing for a year, suggested we move in together. I leaped at the idea. In retrospect, I think I was afraid of being alone. I have to seriously consider that might be why I invited Oliver back to my place last night. Am I still struggling with being alone?
I can’t waste my time on memories or bad choices. I have to make some serious decisions about my life. But even that has to wait because I have to get to work.
I gather my purse and my satchel and head out the door. Once I leave the building, I walk several blocks to the subway station to catch the train to my practice. It doesn’t go unnoticed by me that I’m probably the only person in my condo building that takes the subway. Nearly everyone in the condo complex has a car with a driver. And even those who don’t have a driver on call usually call for a car. I sold my car two days after Stephen left and started taking the subway as a way to save as much money as I could.
When I get to my office, I make another pot of coffee, pour myself a cup, and then review my clients for the day. Once my clients start arriving, my focus is on them, effectively distracting me from my life's problems.
When my eleven o’clock client fails to show, I decide to use the time to call real estate agents about the prospect of selling my condo. I make an appointment with one to meet me at my condo after work, and then I go back to my work, completing my notes, filing insurance claims, and meeting with clients.
In the evening, when I get back to the condo building, I walk into the elevator, and the door is just about to shut when a hand comes through, and the doors slide open again. Oliver steps in, stopping short when he sees me.
He smiles and moves to the opposite corner. “How are you, Charlotte?”
For some reason, I feel my cheeks warming. Why am I blushing around Oliver? Oh, that’s right, he saw me naked last night. “I’m doing all right. How are you?”
He leans back against the corner of the elevator, resting his hands on the railings. “Same as I ever was.”
“Did you have an interview today?”
He nods, looking up at the numbers as the car carries us to our floors.
“How’d it go?” I ask.
“Same as they always do,” he sighs. “Someone on the West Coast has it in for me, so it doesn’t matter that I’m a good doctor with good experience. They all say the same thing. They can’t afford the risk of having someone like me on the staff.” He looks down, and it’s difficult to see a man like Oliver appear defeated.
I’m dying to know what he did that would impact his ability to get a job out here. It’s not like doctors in New York are pious monks. Most of them probably have reputations too.
“The good news is that I got invited to an event where many doctors in the city will be, so I’ll be able to network, although the person that invited me didn’t think any of them would be particularly eager to have me on their staff either.”
“I’m sorry.” I have half a mind to agree to his silly proposal because I feel so bad that he can’t get a job.
